If We Ever Meet Again
by pgrabia
Summary: As Wilson receives treatment for his Thymoma, House is the one in mortal danger-and in danger of disclosure. H/W slash, set post-season 8 with spoilers up to/incl. the series finale. Some coarse language. Sick!Wilson and Sick!House. Part of the Bitten universe reading prior fic Once Bitten may be helpful but not necessary .


**Title: ****If We Ever Meet Again**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, Dr. McMurtry, various OCs, surprise guest/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~6800

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies". Unbetaed, sorry.

**Rating: R/M (to be safe)**

**A/N: **Part of the _**Bitten**_ universe. Reading my fic _**Once Bitten**_ at my LJ journal or at Sick Wilson Anonymous at LJ might be a good idea but I'm pretty certain this can stand on its own.

Title from the Katy Perry song.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**If We Ever Meet Again**

One would have expected that of the two of them, Wilson would have been the one who collapsed in public; he was the one fighting a lethal disease, after all. That was not how it went down, however. No, House had been the one to collapse in the middle of a Phoenix, Arizona supermarket two hours after Wilson's first chemotherapy session. If Wilson hadn't been so overwhelmed with anticipatory anxiety prior to the event, he would have noticed the signs, small and large, that House had been exhibiting, showing that he wasn't quite _right_.

It started on the morning of Wilson's first IV infusion of the marker-specific chemo drug at the Scottsboro clinic where he'd chosen to receive therapy. The decision had been Wilson's to seek treatment for his cancer because he'd finally had House as his lover as well as friend and didn't want to let that happiness go so soon. House was up before Wilson, something that was so rare as to catch Wilson's attention, albeit only part of it. Most of Wilson's mind was fixed on what he was going to be experiencing in a few hours. House was quiet as Wilson showered and dressed, reclining on the motel bed reading a medical journal. Just because he had no idea whether or not he would ever be able to practice medicine again didn't change his interest in what was happening in medicine at large.

Wilson came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair and otherwise nude. Since he and House had finally moved their relationship up a step to best friends _and_ lovers they had both abandoned the pretense of modesty around each other. House looked up from his reading to look at Wilson's body, greatly appreciating what he saw but not finding himself at all aroused as he usually was by the sight of Wilson's creamy white skin and kissable ass. He continued to stare, as Wilson got dressed.

"I wish you would tell me what is so important that you can't stay with me during my first treatment," Wilson said bitterly as he moved to a mirror and tied his blue and magenta tie around his neck. "I really want you there."

"I know, and I would be if I could but I can't."

"You keep saying that," Wilson responded, turning around to face him, his hands moving to his hips, "but you won't tell me why. That means that whatever it is you've got planned today is either illegal or something I wouldn't approve of, or both."

House sighed, rolling off the bed, grabbing his cane, and limping to Wilson. "It's a surprise-a necessary surprise. It will make our finding an apartment or house here easier, as well as our daily lives in general. It is…illegal, but so is travelling the country with you when I'm supposed to be roasted to ashes and dumped in the Atlantic Ocean." He grasped Wilson's upper arms and pulled him close until they were brushing each other. He leaned forward and kissed the former oncologist tenderly; it was a kiss that came out of love rather than lust and Wilson never failed to respond immediately to such expressions coming from House. House was definitely a doer, not a speaker.

Wilson hummed when House's tongue pressed gently against his teeth, and he allowed him access to his mouth. They kissed until they needed to breathe.

"You promise it's nothing dangerous—what you'll be doing while I'm at the clinic, that is?" Wilson asked him softly, caressing House's cheekbone with his thumb. "The last thing I need is to be worrying about you during this."

"So don't worry about me," House told him. "I'll be fine. I'm just meeting with someone briefly in Phoenix after I drop you off, then I'll stop to pick up some ginger-ale, crackers, and apple sauce for you to eat tonight."

Wilson didn't appear completely convinced, but he said nothing more about it. "Dr. McMurtry said that most of his patients experience little to no nausea after the chemo infusion since the drug targets genetically marked cancer cells and leaves the healthy cells in my body alone. I may run a slight fever for a day or two, and I may feel a little queasy, but he said that it'll be a lot easier on my system than traditional chemo drugs."

"For your sake I hope he's right," House said, kissing Wilson's nose. Wilson frowned and gave him a little shove, but he wasn't fooling House; the former diagnostician knew that his lover liked the little kisses and pinches and love pats House gave him throughout the day, and House enjoyed finally being able to touch and hold Wilson in those, and of course other, more intimate, ways. He loved Wilson's ass, and in public he relished making Wilson blush by grabbing it as obviously and often as possible.

"When it's over, will you tell me what you were doing today?"

House considered that a moment; seeing no reason why not, he nodded and gave Wilson's glutes a firm squeeze before releasing him.

Once Wilson had enrolled in the research program he and House had postponed their cross-country motorcycle trip, since they'd have to be around for the treatment schedule. They had traded in their Victory motorcycles toward a Saab. House had wanted a shiny black Mustang convertible, but Wilson, being the one who was legally alive, got what he wanted since it was his name being signed on the papers and the difference in price was coming out of his bank account. After he'd finished pouting House had reminded Wilson that some of that money in the bank account was money he'd inherited from House when he had been declared dead; all the same he'd admitted that the Saab was better than the Volvo Wilson had owned, which for House was a two-thumbs-up.

Wilson drove as far as the McMurtry clinic where he got out of the car and House took over the driver's seat.

"Text me if you need to," House told him before driving away. With a sigh, Wilson went into the clinic and checked in at the admitting desk.

House continued on to a residential address in Phoenix, and found what was likely a crack den far into the wrong side of the tracks. He figured it made sense that his contact would be located in such a place and was very glad that he had brought John House's loaded service pistol with him, tucked into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He parked the car, a little worried that it might not still be there when he came out again, even with its fancy security alarm system. A Saab in such territory stood out like a sore thumb.

House limped up to the front door, his body tense and ready to wield his cane like a weapon or pull out his gun should someone suddenly decide to mug the cripple. He rang the doorbell and heard nothing, figuring that it was broken. He banged on the wooden door with the handle end of his cane. A few seconds later the door opened and House found himself face to chest with a hulk of a man wearing a dirty beer t-shirt and equally filthy jeans.

"What do you want?" Hulk demanded, eyeing House suspiciously.

Swallowing thickly, House put on his best nonchalant demeanor and replied, "I'm here to see Hank."

"Who's callin'?"

"Tell him it's Thomas," House replied. He'd assumed his stepfather's identity while on the road since Dr. Gregory House was supposed to have died weeks before in a warehouse fire. Hulk nodded and closed the door in House's face. He waited about thirty seconds, glancing around and over his shoulder the entire time, before Hulk appeared at the door again. Undoing the chain lock, Hulk opened the door and stepped back to allow House into the rundown bungalow. The inside looked as seedy and filthy as the outside. Two women sat in the empty living room on the floor, cooking their dope. They didn't bother acknowledging House, which was fine by him. He had no interest in heroin-addicted street whores, although one of them obviously was exhibiting signs of advanced TB infection. House was about to tell her so when he was cut off.

"_Hank's_ waitin' for you in the kitchen," Hulk told him before withdrawing to the back of the house, to one of the bedrooms by the look of it. House made his way to the kitchen where he found a small, dark man in a green polo and jeans seated at a table that was covered in forged documents, credit cards, and certificates of various kinds as if they were on display. He was studying them closely with a magnifying lens, likely looking for imperfections that could possibly be caught by people in the know.

"How do they look?" Hank asked House, waving his hands over the table like a game show model presenting the grand prize. There were no pleasantries exchanged; this was a business transaction, not a social call.

House picked up an Arizona driver's license with his mug on the front of it as well as a birth certificate for Thomas John Bell and studied them closely. They were fantastic forgeries; House couldn't see a thing wrong with them. He looked at the table in search of a Social Security card. Finding it he studied it as well. It was flawless.

"And these serial numbers work?" he asked Hank, looking up at him. "I'm not going to get flagged at an airport or at a traffic stop when the authorities run the numbers?"

"Please," Hank protested as if offended, "of course not. There's a reason I charge as much as I do for these babies. I haven't yet had an unhappy client. I have contacts that do premium work."

House had to admit he was right. It had cost him a fortune to build a new identity for himself, but it was worth it just to be with Wilson rather than rotting away in prison.

"The remaining payment due is required now before I let you leave here with these," Hank reminded him. House nodded, reaching for his pocket and pulling out a stack of hundreds, handing them over. Hank quickly counted the bills, then nodded that he was satisfied and began to bag up the documents for him. House put the driver's license into his wallet along with the social security card and two credit cards. With another nod, House took his documents and made his way quickly out of the bungalow, relieved when he saw that the car was still where he'd parked it and in one piece.

He climbed into the vehicle and locked the doors before stashing the documents into the glove box. House felt queasy and attributed it to nerves, to his body finally relaxing because the deed was done and now he could find a supermarket, pick up the easily-digestible foods and drink for Wilson, just in case he reacted to the chemo worse than expected. An odd flutter in his chest caught his attention, and he also noted that he was breathing heavier than usual; he chided himself for getting that wound up over this interaction.

It only took him a couple of minutes to locate a supermarket. He parked the car as close to the door of the building as possible. Getting out of the car he stumbled a little as lightheadedness struck and he saw and heard white static in his head. House grabbed the car to keep himself from falling. It had to be dehydration, he reasoned, or low blood sugar, trying to remember when he last ate or drank. He hadn't had much of an appetite lately, probably due to his relief and excitement over finally having Wilson in every way he had ever dreamed of, and Wilson changing his mind about taking treatment for his thymoma.

Once his equilibrium returned he headed inside the supermarket and grabbed a hand-basket into which he put his purchases. He hated grocery shopping and wanted to get out of there and back to Wilson as quickly as possible so he was moving as quickly as his leg would allow, growing frustrated with people who slowed him down by doing things like walking slowly in front of him or blocking the aisles with their carts. Younger women with their babies and young children earned his scowls and grunts whenever the little brats screamed and threw temper tantrums over being told no or nearly tripping him up by running into or weaving around his legs and/or cane.

When he got to the checkout he saw that there was only one cashier currently working and the line streaming from it was six carts deep. She wore a badge with her name and then 'In Training' printed on it. He growled a little in his throat, tempted to throw his basket aside and march out of the place.

He was simply standing there, waiting, when his heart began to speed up and flutter and he felt short of breath. _What the hell?_ He thought. When nausea hit him like a giant wave crashing into a rocky bluff, House realized what was happening to him. He reached for his phone, but by now his body was sweating and trembling and he fumbled with the device, dropping it.

"Sir?" The woman with twin boys in her cart in line behind him was looking at him with a concerned frown. "Are you alright?"

House shook his head and opened his mouth to answer when the pain, intense and terrifying, struck his chest and radiated straight down his left arm. No sound came out of his mouth, and his knees were beginning to feel like they were made of Jell-O.

The woman whipped out her cellphone while yelling at the cashier: "You! Get your manager; I'm calling for an ambulance. I think this man is having a heart attack!"

"Th-thanks," House managed to force out before his legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the floor, the contents of his basket scattering everywhere and his cane clattering loudly against the beige floor tile. _For not being an idiot,_ House's mind finished his thought because he was too busy trying to breathe to be able to speak it. He could see the woman talking into her cellphone but he couldn't hear her and he was losing his peripheral vision. She put the phone away and knelt next to him, feeling for a pulse, checking his eyes, loosening the buttons on his button up, throwing one of the twins' 'blankie' over his torso, elevating his feet. A crowd of slack jaws was forming around them.

"I'm a doctor," the woman said to him; House was able to read her lips. She turned away to yell at the crowd. Moments later someone handed her a bottle. She dumped an Anacin into her hand then held it out to House. He opened his mouth and allowed her to place the pill under his tongue, since he couldn't even swallow when he wanted to. As it melted in his saliva the bitterness of the pill was welcome.

"W-Wilson," House mouthed, since his lover was the last thought he had before passing out.

…

As the nurse slowly pulled the needle out of the vein in his arm she gave Wilson a warm smile that he couldn't help but return because it was positively infectious.

"How are you feeling now that it's done?" she asked him routinely, applying pressure with a cotton ball to the injection site while she tore off a piece of tape. She lifted the cotton for a second to check for clotting. Satisfied the taped the cotton ball firmly onto the spot.

"Not bad," Wilson admitted with a nod. He was so used to his past patients' decidedly negative reactions to the traditional chemo drugs he'd prescribed for them that he'd expected to be terribly sick and perhaps even ready to vomit. Instead he felt tired and his head ached mildly, but otherwise he was fine—for now. "I have a bit of a headache but otherwise I'm okay."

She nodded, grabbing the IV pole and pump in order to move it with her. "That's normal. You can expect to feel fatigued and weakened for the next few days, a little achy, but the nausea shouldn't be bad. If you find that it becomes distressing or you're vomiting a great deal call the clinic immediately. Also, be on the lookout for any signs of an allergic reaction. Very rarely do we see adverse reactions to the treatment but it has happened so we try to keep on top of it. Any rash, swelling, sneezing, sore eyes, runny nose, difficulty swallowing or breathing, contact the 24 hour number on the back of the card you've been given. If the reaction is severe, get to a hospital as soon as possible and give them the card; they'll contact us."

"Got it," Wilson assured her.

"Good," she said, still smiling. "Now, we want you to remain here and seated for at least twenty minutes to see how it goes. If nothing happens between now and then we'll let you go home. Soft diet and plenty of fluids for the next seventy-two hours are recommended, but you might find yourself able to tolerate more than that before then. Do you have someone coming to pick you up? Policy doesn't allow us to release you on your own after a treatment."

"My friend…well, actually he's my boyfriend…he should be by soon to pick me up," Wilson told her, wondering silently where House was and what was keeping him so long. He didn't like being kept in the dark about House's activities; it made him extremely nervous. "His name is Thomas. He's tall—about six foot three—clean-shaven, buzz-cut black hair and walks with a cane."

"I'll keep an eye and an ear out for him," the nurse assured him. "In the meantime, rest. I'm going to bring you some apple juice to drink and I want you to drink it all before you leave, okay?"

Wilson nodded. She left to fetch the juice, taking the IV pole with her. He sat back in his recliner. They had taken him to a small but cheerily decorated room for his treatment; he'd been relieved to know that he wouldn't have to sit in the same room as someone else just in case he reacted badly to the chemo, or they did. He'd brought House's IPod along, listening to '80s music in an attempt to distract him while the drug dripped down the tube and into his body.

The nurse returned a couple of minutes later with the apple juice and a small paper cup holding a paracetamol tablet, handing them to him. He smiled in thanks and took the tablet with the apple juice.

"There was a call for you at the desk just as I got there," she told him, her pretty countenance no longer smiling but rather clouded with concern. "It was from St. Joseph's Hospital in Phoenix—apparently your boyfriend was taken by ambulance to their emergency room. The clerk who called wouldn't release the details of what happened or what his current status is to me. I have an orderly fetching a wheelchair for you so I can take you to the nursing desk where you can talk to the hospital yourself."

Wilson's heart leapt into his throat, his eyes widening with concern. Something had happened to House! He knew something bad was going to happen! Worry threatened to sicken him more than his treatment would.

"Yes, thank you. Hurry!" he told the nurse, his mind spinning with the possibilities of what might have happened to House, all of them ending with him alone in the world, facing his cancer treatment and uncertain future on his own.

…

House opened his eyes slowly, and was immediately aware of two things: firstly, that he was in an Intensive Care Unit at god-only-knew which hospital; and secondly, that he had tubes shoved down his throat and up his urethra, and neither of them felt at all pleasant. His view, thanks to the tracheal tube restricting the movement of his head, was of a suspended tile ceiling, two bags hanging from an IV pole, and a clock over a door that read 12:15. A face suddenly appeared from above him, that of a rather homely-looking male flashing a penlight into his eyes, which promptly closed on the offending intrusion. It was like someone had turned up the volume suddenly and he could hear a heart monitor beeping, gratefully, and two male voices using medical terminology which took House a moment or two to comprehend.

"Thomas?"

House wondered who the hell Thomas was, then after a moment remembered that it was he. The ugly mug and offending light from before had been replaced by Wilson's very weary, worried, and wonderful face. Brown eyes were serious, full of concern and love.

"Don't try to talk, you're intubated," Wilson told him.

_No shit, Sherlock,_ House thought flippantly. _Tell me something I don't know—like how badly my heart was damaged, maybe?_

Wilson gently caressed his face. "You're going to be alright, House. You had a heart attack, but a doctor at the scene prevented you from sustaining worse damage by giving you ASA to help break up the clot. It's going to take time and a lot of rehabilitation, but you're going to be just fine."

_I'm a doctor, moron! Quit talking to me like I'm some uninitiated idiot member of the general public!_

House rolled his eyes but instead of them returning to look at Wilson they rolled into his head and he was out like a light again, not to awaken for nearly a day and a half. When he did, the tracheal tube was gone and he was being fed supplemental oxygen through nasal cannula instead. Unfortunately the tube in his urethra was still there and itched like hell.

Looking around, he was still in an ICU and the overhead lights were dimmed, indicating that it was the nocturnal shift at whatever hospital he was in. Slouched over in an armchair beside his bed was Wilson, who was sound asleep.

"Wilson," House said, trying to speak but finding that all he had the voice and strength for was a gravelly whisper. Finding it not enough to wake him, and seeing that he was out of arms reach, House's eyes roamed for something to throw. He couldn't find a thing, which was just as well, since he didn't think he had the strength to carry the intention through. Taking a moment to consider his options, House then managed to lift his arm enough to grab at one of the lead wires connecting him to the heart monitor. Gritting his teeth against the sting, House yanked the wires, pulling the leads off of his skin. Immediately the alarm sounded as the monitor flatlined.

Wilson was awake and alert instantly, rising from his seat to come to House's rescue. Seeing House awake with the wires still in his hand, the younger man rolled his eyes and exhaled in relief. He shut off the alarm.

"Nice," Wilson told him, frowning. "You just about gave _me_ a heart attack!"

A doctor and two nurses yanked the privacy curtain around his bed aside, ready to resuscitate him, only to stop in their tracks when they saw what happened.

"Had…to get your…attention," House breathed, wincing against the pain he felt.

"You could have pressed the call button," the resident told him as one of the nurses reattached House's leads and reset the monitor. The second nurse returned promptly to her other duties.

"Not yours…Wilson's," House replied.

"Sorry about this," Wilson told the resident. The other doctor nodded, his frustration waning.

"Good to see him awake, anyway," the resident commented. "I'm Dr. Villeneuve, one of the intensivists in charge of your care. How do you feel, Mr. Bell?"

House blanked on him, his brain not responding as quickly as it usually did. Once House realized the question was directed at him he croaked. "Chest…burns, hurts."

"That's because of the chest compressions you received as well as the fact it took the EMT's who responded to the emergency call six tries to defibrillate your heart," Wilson told him, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He took House's hand in his and House didn't try to pull away from his touch; indeed, it was welcomed. "In spite of that, the infarction was a mild one with minimal muscle tissue damage. You were lucky there was a doctor in line behind you at the supermarket who thought to give you an Anacin. That move broke up the clot before you suffered further tissue damage."

"You're just about due for your next dose of pain killer," Villeneuve told him. "I'll have the nurse bring it right away. Dr. Wilson is correct; you're very lucky. I have to go for now, but I'll be back later to answer any questions you might have and give you an update on your condition."

He left House and Wilson alone, closing the curtain behind him.

"Good…he's gone. How bad…is it, really?" House asked his best friend. "Feel so weak."

"You know that's normal after a coronary," Wilson answer. "You're recovering quite well. You idiot…why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

House looked away briefly, feeling stupid. "Thought it was stress, exhaustion. Maybe the flu. Supposed to be…supporting you, not…the other way around."

"And you thought that terrifying me with a heart attack and nearly dying on me would be more supportive than telling me the truth?" Wilson asked, an edge to his voice. He shook his head. "Part of this is my fault. My cancer diagnosis, this trip…the stress for you has been undoubtedly high, and then there's the fact that I didn't even notice that anything was wrong."

"A lot…on your mind," House insisted, shaking his head and frowning at Wilson's self-flagellation. "I…ignored symptoms, hid them. My fault, not yours." He breathed a few times before asking, "How long…unconscious?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness for about sixty hours, now," Wilson answered before lifting House's hand to his lips and kissing it tenderly. "The cardiologist believes you threw a clot from somewhere else in your body, likely your bad leg thanks to hours of biking across the country. It hit the heart and lodged there. I guess it's a good thing our adventure has been postponed indefinitely."

House nodded in agreement. "How do…you feel?"

Wilson smiled softly at the question. "I was a little sick the first day after the treatment but not bad. No vomiting or diarrhea. I feel tired but otherwise fine now."

"Sorry…I wasn't there."

"You can make it up to me by telling me where you were and what you were doing," Wilson told him, "though I think I have an idea after finding certain items in your clothes and in the glove box of the car."

House sighed, gathered his somewhat jumbled thoughts. "Buying an identity. The guy I got the documents…from is the best. Cost an arm and a leg…but worth it."

"They certainly fooled the police who accompanied the paramedics to the supermarket you were at," Wilson agreed, "although they were curious as to why you had so many documents with you in one place. I told them that we had just moved here for my treatments and you didn't feel safe leaving them in our motel room unattended. I think they believed me because neither of us is in handcuffs."

"Lucky," House agreed, having difficulty keeping his eyes open. He felt so tired!

"We've been lucky in more ways than that," Wilson told him, "but I'll save that story for when you're more awake." He leaned over and kissed House gently on the lips, lingering a moment before sitting up again. "Get some sleep, _Tommy_. I'll be here when you wake up."

House shook his head. "Don't…call me…_Tommy_! And you get rest…too."

Wilson caressed his cheek, smiling. "I will. I love you, House."

"Now you're just being…schmoopy, Wilson…"

House allowed sleep to suck him under.

…

Wilson watched House fall asleep the smile still on his face, but as soon as House was under, the smile disappeared and a look of worry replaced it. He gently set House's hand down then rose to his feet and left House's cubicle, heading for the nursing desk.

Another doctor standing there, looking over House's chart, looked up and nodded to acknowledge his presence.

"Looks like he'll recover enough to be sent to the nearest prison infirmary within a week."

Wilson grabbed the other doctor's arm and led the way to the deserted visitor's lounge out of earshot of any St. Joseph's staff. His grip was tight on purpose, as all he wanted to do at that moment was to strangle the person he was with.

"I'm begging you," he muttered quietly, "don't do that. He doesn't deserve to go back for flushing a handful of tickets down a toilet, for Christ's sake!"

"Of course he does! He's a fugitive on the lamb. As far as I'm concerned," his companion told him, sniffing, "he should never have been released in the first place."

"Thank God you're not the judge," Wilson bit back, one hand going to his hip while the other rubbed at the tense muscles at the base of his skull. "You used to be a reasonable human being. You call House a monster but you're the one willing to send him back to a hellhole where there are neo-Nazis who'd love to skin him alive for cheating them out of his pain meds. He's done his time, and…and I need him."

"You went an entire year without him. You'll survive."

"I might only have five months to live—I have cancer."

There was silence while the other doctor eyed him appraisingly. "Liar."

"It's the truth. Call Princeton if you don't believe me. Thymoma; I'm part of the fifteen percent that are treatment resistant. We're here in Arizona because I'm in an experimental program and receiving specialized treatment." Wilson sighed. "But I don't think I can make it without him."

"Trust me, you can. You'd be better off without Gregory House in your life. After everything he's done—"

"After everything _you_ did—"

"Don't! Don't you dare blame me for what happened! I was the victim!"

Wilson looked thoughtfully at his companion for a moment then shook his head. "Neither of you were victims. You were the manipulator who pushed him beyond what he could handle, trying to turn him into somebody he's not. He did something incredibly reckless and dangerous in response. I'm not excusing his actions, but don't think you're fooling me with that martyr routine! You were just as much to blame, lying to him like you did when he was obviously unstable—you _know_ that. Look, you say that we're still friends. _Prove_ it. Let this go. Let House and me live in peace for whatever time I may have left to live. I…I love him, Lisa, and I _need_ him. _Please._"

Lisa Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "You're insane, you know. He'll only end up hurting you like he did me. He'll get bored of you being sick and might even up and desert you. And why the hell did you have to come to Phoenix of all places when you knew I'd started over here!"

"It was just for the treatment," Wilson explained. "We're staying in Scottsdale and I had no idea House would have a heart attack and be rushed to the very hospital where you work. He's changed. He really has. I don't know if it was prison that changed him or what, but he gave up everything of importance to him—including his own identity—to be with me for the last five months of my life. He gave up the puzzles and put me _first_. He even went without Vicodin so I could have them to deal with the pain resulting from an initial attempt at shrinking the tumor. I don't know how or why, but something finally clicked inside him. He loves me…he even said it _without_ being tortured first."

Cuddy still appeared highly skeptical, but her stance was relaxing a bit. She smoothed out her lab coat with slightly trembling hands. "I guess I should have known," she admitted softly. "It was always you he loved the most…even when we were still together. You were the one he confided in, not me. He trusted you—he certainly didn't trust me. There were times when I suspected his feelings for you went beyond friendship but I couldn't prove it. In fact, I forced myself to deny it. And you, with all you're failures with women…well, now it's confirmed. He was with me only because he didn't think he could be with you."

"He loved you, Lisa," Wilson told her simply, not knowing what else to say. It was true—House had confided in him that he'd always been more in love with him than he had been with Cuddy, that he'd only entered a relationship with her because he had believed he could never have him. Wilson knew he had to tread lightly, stroke her enormous ego, if he was going to convince her not to report House to the authorities.

"Maybe," she acknowledged, shrugging, "but not enough, and not in the way I needed. I should call the police right this second…"

Wilson felt the knot in his stomach tighten. "_Lisa_—"

"…But I won't," she finished with a sigh. "I should have known better when I read in the paper that he'd died. The man is a goddamned cat on steroids! I won't report the bastard, but you better get him transferred out of this hospital as soon as he's stable enough to go and don't tell him about me. If he disturbs me even once, I'll call the cops. I'm not kidding about this, James. And I'm only doing this for _you_. Thymoma…now that's irony for you. Don't come crying to me when House shows his true colors again and destroys _your_ life and peace of mind."

"He won't," Wilson said, extending his hand out to her. "Thank you."

Cuddy looked at his hand and shook her head, crossing her arms in front of her. "Don't thank me. I'm already regretting it. Good-bye Wilson, and good luck. You're going to need it."

She marched out of the lounge, heels clicking on the floor, before he could reply. He released the breath he'd been holding since she had confronted him earlier that morning. He hadn't been kidding when he told House he was luckier than he thought.

"Good-bye, Cuddy," he whispered, sincerely hoping they never crossed paths again.

…

House watched protectively as Wilson's nurse pulled the needle out of his arm and bandaged the injection spot. This was Wilson's final treatment before he was assessed to determine if the tumor had shrunk enough to be resected. His last MRI showed that it had shrunk out of the surrounding tissues, which in itself was enough to celebrate, but the thymoma had still been completely engulfed with cancerous tissue and Dr. McMurtry had hoped that once the chemo and directed radiotherapy treatments in the induction phase were complete the tumor would have shrunk even further, making surgery safer and easier to extract the entire thymus. It was also the first treatment House had been able to attend with him.

House's recovery had been coming along very well, and he'd even cooperated, grudgingly, with his rehabilitation therapist because she had proven herself competent and capable of standing up to a very bitchy cripple. He was feeling stronger everyday, and his heart was working at almost top efficiency for a man his age. Two weeks after his heart attack House had been stable and strong enough to be transferred to a Scottsdale rehabilitation hospital and spent another month before being released. During that time Wilson had been receiving his treatments regularly and managing fairly well after each one, suffering only a little bit of nausea and discomfort compared to what he could have expected with traditional chemo and radiation. A home care nurse had provided him with the health support House hadn't been able.

While House had been in hospital Wilson had hunted for and purchased a small bungalow in a very nice neighborhood in Scottsdale for the two of them. This was to be _their_ place, not his, and House's name—or rather, his alias—was on the deed right next to Wilson's, which had pleased the former diagnostician when he'd found out. He'd moved directly into their new home as soon as he'd been discharged from hospital.

"How do you feel?" the nurse asked Wilson, taking his wrist to feel for his radial pulse. House frowned, promptly took Wilson's hand out of hers, and felt for it himself.

"It's 78 and fine," House told her, glowering jealously. "Your job here is done. Move along."

Wilson almost said 'House' in protest of his lover's behavior but caught himself in time. "Thomas!"

"It's fine, Dr. Wilson," the nurse told him, smiling, then cast House a death glare, gathered the trash from the bandage and IV pole, and walked away.

"That was rude," Wilson pointed out, knowing that he was wasting his breath.

"She was flirting with my boyfriend," House retorted. "She got off easy. Any nausea, cramping?"

"The same as always," Wilson replied tiredly. "If she's not allowed near me then you're going to have to fetch me some Tylenol and juice."

"Do I look like a go-fer?" House asked sarcastically even as he was rising to his feet with the help of his cane. "The things I do for you." He limped off, heading for the nursing desk.

"I love you, too," Wilson called to him, smiling knowingly. House turned to look back at him and made a point of rolling his eyes, but Wilson saw the smile he was working hard to hide from him. Wilson had absolutely no doubt that the feeling was mutual. He knew everything was going to turn out all right for the both of them. They would prove Cuddy wrong; the best revenge would be a life well lived together, and if they continued to be lucky, it might even be a long one.

_**~fin~**_


End file.
